He sat in the back row next to
the broken window, the one
fearing the guillotine decapitation
for which I sent a weekly work order
of a class clown trying to climb out
the window for a few laughs.
He observed his classmates from this position
a quiet presence, a rare participant.
He sized me up, too.
With the arrogance of the newly minted
teacher, I thought I knew him, thought
I recognized his type. Unobtrusive,
conscientious, respected by his peers,
handsome in a wholesome preppy way.
Destined for an ivy—or one tier down.
Non aggressively athletic, tennis
or squash or golf. Periodic head swing
lifting the sheaf of thick brown hair
from his eyes so that ours could meet
when I returned papers to him
or he asked for an extension–
family problems he‘d explain.
He was nothing like the attention seeking
football players who over-stuffed
the front row, leather sleeved letter
jackets sprawled over the backs
of their chairs. They raised their hands
even though they hadn’t read the book,
had nothing much to say but needed
to be noticed by everyone in the room.
It was early May when students and
teachers alike can taste the stretch
of freedom ahead. We’d just returned
from a fire drill where we gathered
in the parking lot awaiting the principal’s
voice over the loudspeaker. This was
decades before cell phones, lockdown
drills and active shooters on campus
With 15 minutes left on the clock
we returned to the classroom, a still life
of abandoned books and scattered backpacks,
chairs untucked from their desks, scribbles
on a chalkboard memorializing a conversation
that had just begun to gain momentum.
So, what does the color purple mean,
I ask, not only in our ordinary life
but here in this book?
Debate re-ignites quickly. Sparks of smug
certainty. Skepticism smolders.
A question challenges. How do you know
that the color purple relates to being gay?
someone asks.
Just as the bell rings
imposing an end to our discussion
he rises from the back row and in voice
I barely recognize declares I know
because I’m gay and strolls out of the room.
Muddy River Poetry Review, Spring 2020
Elise Chadwick 